Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
by Potix
Summary: "She didn't know what exactly she was waiting for. A gesture. A word. A plea. It didn't come." Warning: character's death. Not main character's death. Sherlolly, and a bit of John x Mary.
1. Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

**Sammykatz suggested "Ain't no sunshine when she's gone" by Bill Whiters as a perfect Sherlolly song. I agree, and I put also a bit of (very) sad John and Mary in this story, because...well, the song and my muse told me to do it.**

**Warning: character's death. Really, really sorry.**

_Ain't no sunshine when she's gone,_  
_it's not warm when she's away._

John couldn't blame the driver. He was sober. He wasn't talking on his phone. He wasn't distracted by something trivial. He simply had a stroke. While driving. And as a consequence of that, he killed his wife, who was strolling on the pavement, going back home after a day at the clinic.

His Mary. His everything. She was gone. And he had none to blame. Nothing but fate.

_Ain't no sunshine when she's gone, _

He didn't sleep for two days. They told him it was because of the shock. He knew it was only because he was too afraid to fall asleep, and to wake up, thinking it was only a nightmare, and then discovering-again-that his future would be trying to exist without her.

She was the best thing that could have possibly happened in his life. She knew it. He knew it. And now, she was gone, and he didn't know anything else.

_and she's always gone too long _  
_anytime she goes away._

Mrs Hudson and Harry helped him with the funeral; Mary was an orphan, and had no siblings. Sherlock...well, he had been by his side, since the moment the bloody phone rang and a stupid police officer told him the news. It was Sherlock Holmes, anyway:not well-versed for taking care of a grieving, desperate widow. So he did something he rarely did. He asked for help.

_Wonder, this time where she's gone,_

Molly Hooper had left London shortly after the wedding. Hers. She left everything behind. St. Bart's. John and Mary. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Obviously, Sherlock. She began a new life in Edinburgh, where Tom was offered a new job in a law firm. With her credentials, it wasn't difficult for her to find another employment: she was working for the forensic medicine section within the division of Pathology at the University of Edinburgh. It wasn't at all like working at St. Bart's, with Sherlock Holmes always ready to barge into the morgue...but she loved teaching. She was in love with Tom. Nothing else mattered at the time.

Until that afternoon, when after three years, she heard the baritone voice resound from the cellphone.

___wonder if she's gonna stay_

She had left two months after the wedding. A wedding he attended, like he had done two years before, for John and Mary. That time, he didn't read a speech. He didn't play the violin for the first dance of the happy couple. Sherlock left the church after the vows, without waiting to congratulate Mr and Mrs Wallis. Mycroft had a new, high-profile case for him, and for once, he couldn't wait to do his brother a favour. He sent a text to John, and returned home a week later. He couldn't forget the reprimand both the Watsons gave him. Mary was a bit more hesitant, though. She sensed there was something more, behind his sudden escape.

While Molly and Tom had a party, to properly say goodbye to her friends, Sherlock marched into Diogene's club.

"I need a favour".

Mycroft took his time, folding the newspaper with extreme care."Is it about your pathologist?"

His left hand closed in a fist, the consulting detective replied "I need a case. Now".

The older Holmes took his tablet from the coffee table."Istanbul. A sneaky thief. Is it enough entertaining for you, brother?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He turned, and Mycroft's voice reached him when he was on the threshold."Caring is a disadvantage. I told you before".

When he checked his texts, after the landing, he found one from Molly. It said only "Goodbye". He deleted it.

That time, back home, only John shouted at him. Mary remained on the sofa, and after her husband finished his rant, raised and hugged a stiff Sherlock. She whispered a quiet "I'm sorry", before asking John to go home.

Mary Morstan-Watson...so observant, and quite clever, indeed. A strong, and caring woman. A perfect match for his best friend. A real pity, she had to die so young, leaving so much pain behind her. A void he surely couldn't fill alone. He needed someone who knew how to handle death, and grief. Someone with a willing heart. Someone like Molly.

_Ain't no sunshine when she's gone,_  
_and this house just ain't no home,_  
_anytime she goes away._

John couldn't stand to remain another day in their home. No, it wasn't a home anymore. It was too silent. Too empty. Too full of memories. Mrs Hudson prepared his old room at Baker Street, and when he climbed the steps, he found Molly Hooper on top of the staircase.

"Sherlock told me. I'm sorry, John, so sorry..." she murmured, her arms already open to embrace him. John laid his head on her shoulder, and cried again. They cried together, oblivious to the inquisitive eyes observing them from the half-closed door downstairs.

_But ain't no sunshine when she's gone,_  
_only darkness everyday._

When she went downstairs, after putting an exhausted John to bed, she found Sherlock sitting on his armchair, in the dark. The faint light from the street lamp outside caressed his body's outline.

"Thank you, Molly. Thank you for taking care of John"._ Thank you for coming back. To me._ He couldn't tell her that he had missed her; that he had hoped for her to remain in London, to remain _his pathologist_ forever. It wasn't fair. She deserved to be happy.

"Thank you for calling me", she answered. She remained on the threshold for a few minutes, waiting for...She didn't know what exactly she was waiting for. A gesture. A word. A plea. It didn't come. Molly returned downstairs, to Mrs Hudson. That night, she didn't sleep.

_Ain't no sunshine when she's gone,_  
_and this house just ain't no home,_  
_anytime she goes away._

Molly left London again, three days after the funeral. John seemed to be slightly better: he observed the coffin being lowered into the ground with the stoicism of a soldier. Sherlock on his left side, Molly on the other. His guardian angels, never leaving their eyes from him. One never looking at the other.

The consulting detective ignored the pathologist: he didn't want to risk deducing her, to confirm that she was happy with her husband, in another city, with another life. Away from London. Away from him.

The pathologist ignored the consulting detective: she didn't want him to observe the telltale signs of her sadness, of her boring, unhappy life. Because Edinburgh wasn't London. Because Tom...wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

_Anytime she goes away, anytime she goes away_

_Anytime she goes away..._

This time, she didn't even try to say goodbye to him, before going back home.

Five months after Mary's death, John decided that it was finally time for him to join Sherlock again. "Mary wouldn't want for me to neglect my best friend. She really liked you, you know?" the doctor told him, one evening, a single tear running down his face.

"I liked her, too. She was your perfect counterpart. Your soul mate, as Mrs Hudson loves to say".

"Have you ever...thought about it?"

"About what?" Sherlock barked.

"Your soul mate".

He went back to the room in his mind palace devoted to Molly Hooper. It was full of long scarves, hideous cardigans, lab coats, smell of bergamot and formaldehyde, sweet smiles...and one wedding ring.

"No" he lied. He was not John Watson. He couldn't have his Mary.

**Not too happy about the ending, but...anyway, here it is. Thanks for reading. Leave a review, you will receive good influence and beautiful dreams.**

**P.s.: Just to be clear, I didn't make Mary die because I don't like her. I really love her, as a character, and as Amanda Abbington is playing her. It was only a literary literary expedient, just to be clear. And I don't hate Tom...I simply love Sherlolly more.**


	2. You don't know me

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. The song "You don't know me" was written by Eddy Arnold and Cindy Walker. I suggest to listen to Ray Charles or Michael Bublè singing this song,they are both brilliant. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

**Another suggestion from Sammykatz for a perfect Sherlolly song. Thanks to her for the prompt, and to Flavialikestodraw, for her words of wisdom!**

Molly didn't come back to London for two years. She used to send a long letter to John, every anniversary of Mary's death; she called Mrs Hudson every Christmas; Lestrade saw her once, when one of his cases forced him to go to Scotland.

Every time, the three of them tried to include Sherlock in their conversation;Molly always changed topic. Not once, she asked about him.

In London, every time the three of them tried to tell him how Molly was, Sherlock ignored them. Not once, he asked about her.

Until the wedding.

* * *

Sherlock always suspected that Anthea was something more than just a valuable assistant for his brother. Even before his "death", he had been sure that Mycroft had at least tried to find someone who resembled a companion for him; after his return to London, he had hinted at that, but Mycroft had dismissed the idea with disdain.

Now, nearly six years after that conversation, he was struggling with another best man's speech (thank God his brother wasn't interested in a stag night!). Mycroft and Anthea had agreed for a small, private ceremony, mostly because it was safer for the both of them, since the older Holmes position in the english government. Only the family, a few trusted friends...Sherlock wiggled the pen, growing frustrated with the stupid speech. He heard someone ringing downstairs, and Mrs Hudson's cry of joy when she opened the door. "My darling, what a surprise! I'm so happy to see you!" his landlady shrieked...and then, a voice he had not heard in a long time, answered. "It's good to see you too, Martha". Molly. Molly Hooper. No, Molly Hooper-Wallis. That was her name, now.

He left the living room, and went directly to his bedroom, slamming the door with violence.

Downstairs, both the women jumped, startled by the sudden noise. "Let's take a tea, my dear..." Mrs Hudson offered, seeing Molly's gaze wandering towards the flat upstairs. "You do have a lot to tell me, don't you?".

* * *

Sherlock decided to leave Baker Street; maybe he should ask John and Greg for help with the speech. Going down, he noticed that Mrs Hudson's door was open, and took a look inside. The light in the living room was on, and there, sprawled on the old sofa, was Molly, asleep, her left arm dangling down. That time, he couldn't avoid to observe her. She looked so calm, so peaceful, so innocent...and she wasn't wearing her ring. No sign of discolouration on her finger, so she must have taken it out from a long time. More than a year, probably.

He left the room silently, more confused than when he had entered the flat...so confused, that he didn't notice his landlady smirking at him, hidden behind the kitchen door.

* * *

When the cab left him in front of Mycroft's house, Sherlock was even more baffled. He picked the lock with discretion (Mycrof hated when he did that...), and went towards the study. There, reading some files at the desk, were the master of the house. Without raising the gaze, the older brother addressed the younger.

"Why here, brother dear? Was Baker Street too crowded, for you?"

"You invited Molly to your wedding. Why? You don't know her, Mycroft".

"Oh Sherlock, still the idiot one, I see...I know your pathologist very well, instead. Oh, sorry, I shouldn't call her that, should I? She's not been your pathologist for a long time,now..." Mycroft answered, smiling affably.

Sherlock decided to ignore his teasing. "Why are you marrying Anthea, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock, are you trying to dissuade me from making a mistake, now? The night before my wedding?"

"I'm simply curious...you were against goldfish, a few years ago".

Mycroft seemed to ponder about it for just a second._"In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore, never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion"_.

"Quoting Shakespeare, are we?"

"When the occasion arises, yes. Always. And to give you a more personal answer, simply because I want to. She makes me happy, and I want to make her happy, in return. Do you?"

"What?"

"Do you want to make _her_ happy?"

"Who?"

"Oh, brother, ignorance really suits you...but you're an awful liar".

It was Sherlock's turn to reflect upon his next words. "I've always wanted her to be happy. She deserves it. That's why..."

"You let her go? You ran away, and didn't speak to her for years? You feigned she didn't exist?"

"...I didn't interfere. I would have made her suffer " Sherlock finished.

"How would you know?".

Silence.

Mycroft sighed. "Have it ever occurred to you that, maybe, letting her go didn't make her life happier, but only more miserable? And that you made your life even more pathetic, in return ?"

"I don't count".

How ironic, his choice of words.

"Sherlock, you are really the idiot one, between us. Now go home, I don't want my best man to be sleepy tomorrow".

The consulting detective was approaching the door, when Mycroft spoke again. "Do you remember those sappy movies Mummy always watches? There's one line in one of them that Althea quotes often. _"When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible"._ Think about it, Sherlock".

* * *

The ceremony was "so sweet, and moving", in Mrs Hudson's words. For Sherlock, it was a torture. His (and Mycroft's) parents fussed around him all day, and what was worst...Molly was enchanting. Her chestnut hair was shorter, a sleek bob that suited her; she was a bit thinner, and the red sleeveless cocktail dress she was wearing, accentuated her petite figure. He had ignored her the night before, and when the morning came, he came up with an excuse and arrived at the church an hour prior Mycroft had requested. When she approached the bride and groom to make her congratulations, Sherlock's gaze fell once again on her ringless hand.

"We need to talk, later" he whispered to her, when she was near enough. "She must be cold", he thought, because she shivered at his words, before nodding. Then another guest arrived, and his attention shifted to him. He missed completely the smirk on Mycroft's and Anthea's lips.

* * *

This time, Sherlock didn't play the violin for the bride and groom's first dance. When the lights were dimmed, and the music started, he spotted John and...George? Gabriel? Garrett? Lestrade approaching Molly, surely with the intention to ask her for a dance.

"May I?" he asked, intruding between the two men. Both of them walked away, not saying a word. Molly offered him her hand, and he led her towards a rather secluded spot on the dance floor.

_**You give your hand to me**_  
_**And then you say, "Hello."**_  
_**And I can hardly speak,**_  
_**My heart is beating so.**_

_**And anyone can tell  
You think you know me well.  
But you don't know me, no**_

"You look...well. No, you look more than well, sorry".

"Thank you. You're dashing.". Her reply made him smile. He loved how, after the fall, she became bolder, more assertive. It suited her. Strong, brave Molly Hooper.

_**No you don't know the one**_  
_**Who dreams of you at night;**_  
_**And longs to kiss your lips**_  
_**And longs to hold you tight****  
**_

How perfect she felt in his arms. She still wore the same perfume: bergamot, jasmine, rose. He had dreamt her scent, lingering in his nostrils; he had imagined the texture of her luscious hair spilled on his pillow; he had fantasized about the softness of her skin, until he could almost believe that she was there, in his arms, in his bed, and not in another city, in another man's life.

_**To you I'm just a friend.**_  
_**That's all I've ever been.**_  
_**No you don't know me**_

She had always believed that her feelings were unrequited, that her love were hopeless. Now, it seemed she had fooled herself.

_**For I never knew the art of making love,  
Though my heart aches with love for you.  
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by.  
A chance that you might love me too.**_

Maybe, she had been wrong all the time.

_**You give your hand to me,  
And then you say, "Goodbye."  
I watched you walk away,  
Beside the lucky**_** guy**

The song was wrong. In the past, he had escaped from her, like a coward, not wanting to watch Molly walk away with stupid, boring, insipid Tom. But he was not the same man he was six years ago. He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't make the same mistake twice.

**Thanks for reading. Leave a review, you will receive good influence and beautiful dreams.**


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